


Starts, Stops, and New Beginnings

by orphan_account



Category: NCIS
Genre: Language, M/M, Mention of Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-23
Updated: 2011-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-19 17:21:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/203289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Death brings about a new beginning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starts, Stops, and New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: S08xEp24 - Pyramid - Tag
> 
> Spoilers: Yes
> 
> Disclaimer: Characters are copyrights and trademarks of their respective owners.

Life with Gibbs has been a succession of starts and stops.

Well, no, that isn't exactly right. A truer statement is that life with Gibbs has been a series of one start and one stop and one period. He started loving me not too long after Kate died, stopped loving me when he lost his memory, and stayed stopped after his memory returned.

"It's over, Tony. Get that through your head. It's over."

That's a period if I ever did hear one. And that's okay. It has to be. He made his choice, and I've had to live with it. And I think I've done well with it; even had a couple of stops of my own—Jeanne and, now, E.J.

Trouble is, though, I never put a period after those stops. I didn't punctuate them at all, but left them open-ended instead. I used to tell myself that I would do it when the time was right, and that it would be a cakewalk when that time came, or when the real right person came, or when . . . or when something.

Now, standing here, with the echo of volleys of rifle shots and Taps ringing in my head, I realize that I left those stops open-ended on purpose. I don't want to put paid to on my story of Gibbs and me. I don't want closure. I don't want a "the end".

And it could have been the end, in more than one way. I remember the look on Leyla's face at the funeral service yesterday, and remember thinking it could have just as easily been me. I could have been the one with that lost look on my face. I could have been the one with haunted, pain-filled eyes and trembling hands.

It could have been me.

Gibbs could have been in the casket that's now lying in the ground, covered by mounds of dirt. It could have been his blue eyes going still underneath the blackened sky that rainy night.

But it wasn't Gibbs. It was Mike.

I hear a car door click shut, and feel a familiar gaze on me. Don't ask me how I know who it is. I just do. I would know that gaze anywhere. I guess he's surprised to see me here, but I don't care. I need to get my head straight, and something had been telling me all morning to come here to do it.

All of this has gotten me so messed up. All I can think of is that Cobb had been at Gibbs's house, *his house*, right in front of it. Yeah, I know that Cobb was profiled as having some sort of fucked up empathy toward Gibbs because of E.J. being lead on the case. And I know that Cobb probably wouldn't have targeted Gibbs as a victim. I get it. I do. But none of that makes me feel better. Bottom line is that Cobb got too close to Gibbs, while Gibbs was unaware, right in front of his fucking house, damn it all. That's too close. So profiles and other psychological mumbo-jumbo aren't doing it for me. It didn't keep the nightmares away last night, and it isn't keeping away the cold sweat that's breaking out all over my body right now. The only thing that's giving me anything remotely close to peace is the belief that it just wasn't Gibbs's time.

And you know what? It will never be his time because I need him too damn much to let him go.

So much for putting a period to anything.

I remember arriving at the scene and seeing Mike. Death had closed his eyes. I remember looking at Gibbs. He hadn't looked angry or fired up in that Gibbs way. He'd just looked lost, like a little boy, as if he had no idea what to do with himself. He looked like the way I'm feeling right now.

I close my eyes. Images flash behind my lids. I see weekends spent with Gibbs. I see him lying in my arms, naked and sated from making love. I see dinners in front of the fireplace and days on the firing range. I see myself sitting on the steps in his basement, watching him work on his boat. And see myself at the boat, my back to Gibbs's chest, my hands in his, him guiding me, moving my hands over the planes of the wood. I hear him whispering to me that he wants me to move my hands over him in just the same way. I breathe deeply and smell sawdust and bourbon.

Jesus, God, it could have been him.

That's what I know above anything else. It's what's in my head and in my heart. I take another breath, and it comes out shaky.

"Are you okay, Tony?"

I jump, and find myself a little annoyed that I'd half forgotten he was here.

"I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

I nod. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Ducky told me. He's worried about you."

"Oh. There's no reason to be."

"No?"

I shake my head. "It's all good. I just needed to clear my head some."

"Yeah, I know what you mean. I've been trying to do the same thing." Gibbs's eyes narrow, and his gaze follows my line of sight to Mike's grave. "He gave me a talking to that night."

"About what?"

"The case, ghosts, memories." Gibbs shrugs, and his voice softens. "Regrets. He told me I was a damned fool for leaving you."

I turn to look at Gibbs. I know he can see the surprise on my face. "I didn't know he knew about. . . ." I turn away. "It doesn't matter."

"Yeah, it does. He was right. I am a damned fool." Gibbs's hand brushes my arm. "I'd like to change that, if you're willing."

His words shocks me, and the implication of what he's said, which is there in his face for anyone and everyone to see, startles me even more.

In an uncharacteristic move he reaches out and takes my hand into both of his, wrapping his fingers around mine, then gives me a gentle squeeze. "Mike was dying, and I knew it, had spent months building his coffin, for God's sake, but it didn't hit home until that night. He made me see just how badly I screwed up when I left you." He shakes his head. "I'm not talking about when I left for Mexico. I'm talking about after I came back, when I left you, for real."

"It's okay," I whisper.

"No, it isn't." Gibbs casts a glance towards Mike's grave. "You're not in love with E.J., are you?"

"No."

"Mike said you weren't. He told me to man up and fight for you."

I smile a little and look at him. "That sounds like him, but is that what you want?"

Gibbs nods. "Yes, it is. I don't want to miss one more second of time I could have with you."

I want to say something, anything, but I can't. The functional mute has left the talkative jock speechless. God, he's standing there, looking so sure and strong, and all Gibbs like, and I can't say a damn thing. All I can do is look at Mike's grave.

Don't waste any more time, DiNozzo. It could have been him.

"I'm not going anywhere," he whispers, as if he's heard my thoughts. He lets go of my hand and wraps his arms around me. His lips touch my cheek, my neck, and his body shelters me. "Come back to me."

I turn my head and our eyes meet. A soft breeze washes over us. "Are you sure? Gibbs, I—"

"I'm sure. I want forever with you, if you'll have me."

I close my eyes and swallow hard. Can I trust him? Can I trust what my heart is telling me?

It could have been him.

"I'll have you." Period, I think, as Gibbs's lips claim mine.

The End


End file.
